Mirror His Melody
by isawrightless
Summary: there was something in his head and he could have died and what a waste that would have been.


**trigger warning**: suicidal tendencies/thoughts

* * *

It happened on a Wednesday, that's all he remembers. The month is missing, only the hard taste of that day lingers in his mouth. He remembers it way too often, way too much and guilt always makes him trip, makes him want to apologize over and over.

But on that Wednesday, you see, on that day he had enough, he had broken strings and stupid aches for a heart and he had nothing to stand on. He had a headache and he forgot about common sense and rules and obligations.

He took a glass and poured the last of the Vodka he had in it, and then made his way to the bathroom and opened the cabinet over the sink, glass in one hand, avoided looking at himself in the mirror—he knew how he looked, already. Knew every detail, every feature, every scar on his goddamn face. He knew everything and he knew too much about nothing. He knew. He wishes he didn't.

He took a bottle of aspirin and really, he wanted a couple or so, but his hand wouldn't stop shaking the plastic little thing would give him more pills, all of them falling in a pretty line and to this day he doesn't know how many ended up on his sweaty palm, he wasn't thinking straight. Dear Leon S. Kennedy, the boy scout, always trying to do good, wasn't thinking when he swallowed those pills. One gulp, that cheap Vodka burning down his throat, heating up his insides.

It occurred to him what he had done, and he realized then he didn't care. He shrugged at the thought. He swears to God, he shrugged.

It felt good for a minute or so.

Took all of his pain away, the ache in his joints, the ache in his limbs. It felt good so he threw his head back and smiled. He thought, well shit, this is it. He walked back to his bedroom, turned off his cell and unplugged the phone, collapsed on the bed and waited.

He was nauseous, the headache was even stronger than before but he couldn't keep himself awake, he couldn't move, he closed his eyes and fought back the urge to throw up, and for a moment fear struck him like a bolt of lightning—-energy flowing through his veins and he couldn't lift his arm.

He wanted to think of something.

Someone.

He couldn't.

He fell asleep.

The dream didn't feel like a dream. It played out as something strange, alluring.

His father was sitting next to his mother, in the dream (?) and _where's that boy_ he was asking, _where's that kid?_ and he was so angry, _that boy needs to learn how to be a man, ain't gonna have a pansy little thing running back home when he's scared!_ and he made his way upstairs and found Leon under the bed, shaking, his left eye swollen and bruised.

_You gotta learn how to punch back, boy_.

And his mother, so beautiful, tended to him and _never mind your father, dear boy, mommy's here_.

But then she walked away and chewed on his father's head, her skin rotted and she became dead or she became death, no, she was undead and he ran away and tripped over his foot, his hair sticking in his eye and it hurt but he got up and kept running and running until he was back to being an adult again, back to an old town and it doesn't exist anymore, the town you know, it went away and took thousands of people with it and took his soul and took his heart.

He was dying, but living, and he was breathing.

He woke up.

He woke up and he had drool on his chin and the pounding headache was still there, haunting him, and he smelled of sweat and fear, of Raccoon City and things that should have stayed dead. He was shaking as he shifted to a sitting position, there was a weird feeling on his chest and he tried to make sense of it all.

The clock on the nightstand showed red numbers that were too bright. Wednesday was no longer and the cold of the 3:00 in the morning installed itself inside his apartment, making him realize he had left the window open.

There was—-

(his stomach ached, his lips quivered)

something inside his head, and for a while he prayed it would go away and then he realized the pain served its purpose, he was alive, _there was something in his head_ and he could have died and what a waste that would have been.

Accidental suicide, they would have concluded. Overdose by pills, the entire thing made worse by the ingestion of a cheap, old vodka.

What a stupid way to go.

He shook his head, the thing inside rattled and it hurt. He thought it was his brain going loose, defying science and anatomy and the rules of universe, he thought it was his brain slipping away.

He spotted his cellphone on the nightstand and took it in his hands, they weren't shaking now, and he turned it back on. The modern man and his habits. After an almost suicide event, he checks his cell.

The screen lit up, it hurt his eyes, made him squint, and a few seconds later a little envelope popped up followed by an annoying sound. He had one message—-it's a lot more than he was hoping to get, really.

When he saw it was a message from Claire, he stopped breathing. She hadn't written much, but there was a picture and he still couldn't breathe. Ironic, considering his situation.

He read it one, two, three times.

_hey, we miss you! call me when you can, alright?_

Attached to the message was a picture of Claire and Sherry.

Both girls were smiling at the camera, bright and cheerful. He noticed Sherry was wearing the necklace he got her for her thirteenth birthday. It wasn't much, just a delicate golden chain with a small heart for a pendant, and he remembered how she thought it was the best gift in the world even though he knew it wasn't, he knew the best gift would be giving the little girl her freedom back, but all he could afford was the necklace, and Claire smiled at them and it was okay, somehow, Claire's smile and Sherry's happiness and his entire existence felt right.

Looking at the picture, he winced and tasted iron on his tongue. His bottom lip was bleeding and he realized he had his upper teeth digging into it, into the soft flesh. The salty water, not so tasty, not so comforting as the iron, but there he was, weeping, breaking down, the tears staining his cheek and he felt no shame as he sobbed, as he buried his head into his hands and let the cellphone fall and hit the ground, he felt no shame as he wept and sobbed and cursed himself and his stupidity.

Idiot, he thought, fucking idiot.

Because dying seemed like a good idea, so peaceful and quiet, but he would have to let them go, he would have to forget about Claire's smile, and Sherry's happiness, he would have to let them go and he couldn't, he loved them both so much it hurt (because that's what you get from a city like that, that's what you get for escaping a nightmare, that's the reward: love), and he almost did it, he felt them slipping from his reach, he felt them far away.

It happened on a Wednesday, this suicide/overdose/recklessness thing.

It happened on a Wednesday and he has since learned how to manage his headaches without resorting to medicine, and he has learned how to breathe again and he has kept _them_ for himself, his girls, his family, he has chosen to stick around even if sometimes the pain is too much.

He falls asleep on Claire's lap when he can, and she plays with his hair, and the pain will never go away but the nightmares are kept at bay.

* * *

this was heavily inspired by a file from Resident Evil 6 in which Leon openly admits he thought about suicide countless times, but chose to carry on, and by Damnation where we see a more depressed/human Leon.


End file.
